The Half Dwarven Prince
by Doktor Girlfriend
Summary: Thranduil and Glóin have quite a surprise for everyone. Slash & Mpreg.
1. Symptoms

Title: Symptoms  
Author: Rei-hime  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: Gloin/Thranduil  
Summary: Thranduil isn't feeling well...  
Warnings: Interspecies slash; fluff; m-preg  
Disclaimer: I do not own them… yet. (shifty eyes)  
Notes: Part 1 of the "Half-Dwarven Prince" series. Set in Minas Tirith post-RotK.

**Symptoms**

**By Rei-hime**

Bright morning sunlight streamed through the window, shinning on the bed and right in the sleeping Dwarf's eyes. Glóin groaned and forced his eyes open to glare at the light as if that would somehow convince the sun to set several hours early today. He hadn't slept very well at all; Thranduil had kept him up for most of the night with his tossing and turning. The Elf had developed a fever sometime around midnight and had kicked the sheets away, only to grope for them again mere minutes later when he'd grown cold and shivered. This pattern was repeated for the greater part of three hours until he finally wore himself out and fell into a fitful sleep.

Glóin turned away from the window to look down at the Elf that lay in his arms snoring softly and sleeping peacefully at last. He ran a thumb across his forehead and frowned. The Elf-lord was no longer feverish, but now the Dwarf did not like how pale he looked. Thranduil stirred under his touch, his eyes fluttering open, and Glóin sighed. The Elf needed to rest, and Glóin would rather not have him wake. However, he knew that if he didn't get Thranduil up and about soon, the three Mirkwood princes would start to worry and come filing into the room to wake him anyway.

"Meleth-nin?" The Elvenking of Eryn Lasgalen peered up at his Dwarven lover with tired eyes. "It is morning already?"

Glóin nodded. "It has been for quite some time now," he said, watching as the Sinda blinked at the sun then turned to bury his face in the Dwarf's beard and recalling how only weeks before Thranduil would rise early every morning to watch the sunrise. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than before," he replied, lifting his eyes, and tried to give Glóin a smile. "It was not as bad this time. Perhaps I am getting better." This was not the first time Thranduil had been restless. There were some nights when he could not get to sleep at all.

"Maybe," the Dwarf agreed, though he doubted it. True, Thranduil had been able to sleep, but this was the first time he'd gotten a fever.

Thranduil could tell his companion's thoughts by his expression and opened his mouth to assure him that he was fine, but he never got to speak. He paled suddenly, a horrified expression crossing his face. Quickly, he pushed away from Glóin and leaned over the side of the mattress, retching into a bucket that sat by the bed.

His lover frowned in sympathy, moving closer to rub his back and murmur soothing words until he finished coughing. He then helped the Elf back onto his back and gently wiped his face and mouth with a cool, damp cloth. This was not the first time this had happened either.

The Elf-lord sighed and smiled weakly at the Dwarf. "Sorry, meleth."

The Dwarf shook his head. "You don't need to apologize," he said, brushing a strand of golden hair from his lover's forehead and dropping a quick kiss there. "I suppose I don't have to ask whether you feel like eating."

His companion blanched at the thought of food. "Not now, love. Maybe later."

"Are you sure? Do you want anything to drink? Milk or juice?"

The Elf shook his head.

"Wine?" Glóin offered as a last resort.

"Ugh!" the Elvenking groaned, covering his mouth with his hand and turning away. "No, please, Glóin, I couldn't. I'd only just like some water."

Glóin could only nod dumbly and retrieve a glass for his bedfellow, supporting his head while he drank. Now he was worried. An Elf of Mirkwood refusing wine for water? There was no denying it any longer. Something was terribly wrong with Thranduil.

Thranduil saw the Dwarf's eyes move down his body, and, knowing what he meant to do, did not resist as his nightshirt was tugged up to expose his belly - his now rather round belly. He propped himself up on his elbows for a better view while Glóin sat back to contemplate it.

"It's really not so big of a difference," the Elf said after a while. "Just a little weight I've put on," he continued, speaking the same words he'd used for many mornings.

The Dwarf only shook his head. That was what he had thought when he'd first noticed the change in his Elf's normally slim figure. Thranduil had experienced a sudden increase in his appetite about a month before and had been eating nearly everything in sight. The nausea that soon followed Glóin had also thought to be the result of too much heavy Gondorian food on his temperamental system. But it had been days, almost weeks, since Thranduil had eaten a real meal, his appetite ebbing just as drastically as it had grown, and the swell of his stomach was not getting any smaller.

"If anything, it's getting bigger," Glóin spoke, voicing his thoughts aloud. "And you've been nauseated for weeks." He frowned. Something - some small tickle in the back of his brain was telling him how familiar this seemed - a tiny spark of memory waiting to be ignited.

The Elf's voice, however, quickly extinguished the spark. He had mistaken his lover's pensiveness for concern. "I will see the healer today, melethron."

Glóin sighed and gently laid his hand on the small rise of the Sinda's belly. He repeated the question he'd been asking for several days. "Can Elves be sick at all?"

"No," Thranduil answered as he always did. "Only when we are wounded, and there is not a scratch on me, as you and I both well know." When his partner did not smile he continued. "I don't know what it is, but if the healer does not either, I will ask Elrond. He will probably know." He smiled again at the Dwarf. "I'm sure it is nothing."

This time Glóin returned the smile. "You're probably right," he agreed and hoped it was true. He began to slowly stroke the gentle swell of Thranduil's stomach, causing the Elf to sigh and settle back against the pillows.

"Feels nice," he murmured dreamily, his blue eyes drifting closed, and very soon he was asleep.

Glóin smiled affectionately at the Elvenking and pulled the nightshirt back down over his stomach. Very carefully, so as not to wake his companion, he eased off the bed and crossed the room to the bedroom door, slipping the lock into place to discourage any fretful Elven princes. He then crossed back over to the bed and settled down next to Thranduil. Minas Tirith could do without them for a while longer, he decided, closing his eyes and bringing his hand to rest on the round belly hidden under the soft linen shirt.

**TBC**


	2. Diagnosis

Title: Diagnosis (Sequel to "Symptoms")  
Author: Rei-hime  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: Gloin/Thranduil (with mention of Gimli/Legolas)  
Summary: Thranduil's what!  
Warnings: Interspecies slash; fluff; m-preg  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. They're not mine. I'm gonna go cry now.  
Notes: Part 2 of the "Half-Dwarven Prince" series. Five of my original characters (whom I do own! yay!) make appearances here:  
Maetheron - eldest brother of Legolas  
Faelason - second eldest brother of Legolas  
Eruvyreth - Elven healer; relative of Thranduil  
Gwilwileth & Glilavan - random mischievous Wood-Elves; relatives of Thranduil

**Diagnosis**

**By Rei-hime**

"You're pregnant, my lord."

Somewhere in the back of his brain, mere milliseconds before shock set in, Elrond had the fleeting thought that the look on Thranduil's face was one Thorin Oakenshield would have given his entire treasure to see. Then the full effect of the healer's words hit him, and he could only gape at the Elf-king, his mouth moving in a desperate attempt to make words though no sound came out. Failing speech, he slowly turned his gaze around the room to observe the other's reactions, wanting to know if they had all heard what he had or if he was just losing his mind.

Thranduil, at least, had most definitely heard. His eyes had enlarged to the size of saucers, his ears had turned bright pink, and somehow, despite the fact he'd just been informed that he was carrying the illegitimate child of his youngest son's lover's father, he was managing to pull off an expression of startled innocence... about three seconds before it's lost. Poor Glóin wasn't any better; he looked... well, he looked like a Dwarf who'd just been told he'd impregnated the Elvenking of Mirkwood. There didn't seem to be a more appropriate description. The two of them stared at Eruvyreth, who, for her part, stared passively back, not seeming to find anything unusual about the announcement she'd just made.

As for the four pre-existing children of the expectant parents, they were taking the news of their coming sibling somewhat less than well. Maetheron, the proud crown prince of Eryn Lasgalen, had turned red from his neck to his eartips, his fists and jaw clenched tight, and was directing a seething glare at his "step-father." Gentle Faelason stood by him, looking as though he might burst into tears or laughter or both at any moment, but nonetheless keeping a firm grip on his brother's arm, prepared to restrain him should he attempt to lunge over their father and throttle Glóin. Out of all three Elven princes, the one handling it the best was probably Legolas, whose expression was a flushed mixture of shock, disbelief, and a little curiosity, while Gimli, at his side, simply stood there, open-mouthed, repeatedly glancing back and forth, back and forth between his father and Thranduil.

Yet perhaps even their surprise was not as great as that of Gwilwileth, Glilavan, and the unfortunate sons of Elrond; though, to be fair, it must be said that circumstances added to their disconcert. It seems the four mischievous Elves had been passing by in the hall when they noticed the door to this room had been left open just a crack. Due to their natural want to be privy to most things that were none of their business, they crowded in the doorway to listen. Apparently, upon hearing Eruvyreth's declaration, one of them must have fallen forward and grabbed on to another for support, who in turn grabbed a third, who grabbed the last, so that they all ended up in a rather undignified tangle on the floor, from which shock and sheepishness prevented them from rising.

And how was the noble King of Gondor reacting? His amazement and utter horror couldn't have been greater if he'd been told the Dark Lord Sauron had been reborn and, instead of craving world domination, was interested in organizing an enormous slumber party at Barad-dur, complete with marshmallow roasts and sing-alongs. Strangely, the poor monarch found himself thinking that things like this always seemed to happen just when he'd finally gotten some time for himself.

It was he who found his voice first. "E-Eruv-vy-vyreth," he stammered, apparently only slightly more proficient than Elrond at the art of speech at this particular time. "What did you say?"

The dark-haired healer turned a jaded glance to him, as if it were a terrible chore to have to repeat herself. "He's pregnant. About three months along, I should think," she added, turning back to her lord.

Having remained almost admirably motionless up to this point, Thranduil now sat down very suddenly in his chair and lifted his frazzled features to his family's long-time purveyor of bandages and ointments. "I... I... I'm... I... I'm..."

"Pregnant, Sire," she offered. "You are going to have a baby." And then, by all that is sacred and pure in this world, she smiled, her eyes twinkling. "Congratulations."

Her liege-lord only managed a strangled whimper in reply. He wondered if this was a proper moment to throw up.

Glóin, staring at the "mother"-to-be, uttered the obvious question. "How in hell did that happen!"

The others recovered from their stunned states just enough to look incredulously at the Dwarf, who had the grace to appear embarrassed.

"Oh... right..." He swallowed and laid a hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "Well, this does explain why you've been getting a bit like a Hobbit in the stomach."

The King of the Greenwood half-pouted at his accomplice then glanced down at his lap. And in the most innocently curious manner imaginable, he cautiously laid a hand on his own swollen stomach.

The next sound anyone heard was the soft thud of a body hitting the floor.

Gimli looked down dazedly at his prone lover. "Legolas?"

"He fainted!" Faelason fairly shrieked, rushing to his brother's side with Maetheron fast on his heels.

"Brother, are you all right? Can you hear me?"

"Eruv, do something!"

Eruvyreth sighed and patted her king's hand before seeing to his youngest. Elrond turned to exchange a helpless look with his foster-son. Even considering his immortality, he never thought he'd live to see a day like this.

And what of poor pregnant Thranduil? He was self-consciously rubbing his belly and trying to digest this revelation. He was pregnant. He was somehow going to carry and give birth to a child - Glóin's child.

Glóin.

Thranduil whipped his head around to look at the Dwarf, a sudden fear growing within him. What if Glóin didn't want the baby? What if he decided he didn't want him anymore? He wouldn't abandon them, would he? The Sinda hesitantly reached out to touch the Dwarf's arm. "Meleth?" he inquired, a pleading note in his voice.

Glóin blinked once at his fretful lover, then smiled and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, hugging him to his chest and kissing his forehead in reassurance. The Wood-Elf made a small noise of relief and nuzzled the Dwarf's neck.

"Don't worry, Thran," Glóin said, glancing at Eruvyreth's endeavors to revive Legolas. "Maybe we'll have better luck with this one."

**TBC**


End file.
